All Part of the Job
by DarkSpade3
Summary: Agent 47 consders why he does what he does while in the middle of an assassination.


_Set between Codename 47 and Silent Assassin. Don't own a thing...  
  
A/N: I guess this stays in Misc RPG's until a proper Hitman section is added._  
  
**_All Part of the Job  
  
by   
  
DarkSpade_**  
  
-------------------------------  
  
I sometimes think this job is too easy. Well...most of the time actually.  
  
I suppose I've had my share of tough contracts. Paris had been a close call...and Budapest...but mostly it's a simple matter.   
  
_Turn up. Pull the trigger. Disappear._  
  
Most of the time it hardly seems that I really earn my fee. The Agency can afford it though, I suppose. What's a few hundred thousand here, a million there, for the U.S. government. If that's who the Agency actually report to. Diana is never one to talk about her employers but they're too well funded to be anything other than government. It doesn't really matter anyway. I always deliver and they always pay their bills.   
  
I look away fom the window and check my watch.   
  
8:47 p.m.   
  
Not too long now. I look back to the window and to the street below. The entrance to the London Hilton Hotel. There are plenty of people milling around near the entrance despite the rain that has been pouring down for the last two hours. More people than I'd like, but it won't be a problem.   
  
I turn to the suitcase on top of the single bed in the room. I flick the catches and open the case to reveal my weapon of choice. A Walther WA2000 sniper rifle. Small, compact and deadly accurate. The only other contents are a folder who's contents I have already memorised and an expensive silencer, custom made for this rifle. I flip the folder open and toss it on the bed in front of me. One last check...just to be sure.   
  
I pick up the rifle and begin to screw the silencer onto the barrel as I read the file.  
  
**Name:** Ricardo Ortega  
  
**Nationality:** Brazilian  
  
**Age:** 36  
  
**Height:** 5' 11"  
  
**Hair:** Short, Brown  
  
**Eyes:** Brown  
  
**Distinguishing Features:** None  
  
Contract must me completed no later that **21/2/2004**.  
  
Fee: **$675,000** deposited in gold to your usual account.

__

On the opposite page is a picture of Ortega, also memorised already. An average looking Brazilian man in his thirties. Probably very popular with the ladies. Not after tonight. I doubt it'll be hard to spot a Brazillian man in the middle of London.   
  
Diana didn't include any of his personal history in the file or why someone wanted him dead. Probably drug related, most of these South American hits are. Well, Mr. Ortega must have pissed off someone very important if the Agency wants me to deal with him.   
  
One less drug dealer in the world is fine by me.  
  
I check my watch again.  
  
8:55 p.m.  
  
Almost time. According to his travel arrangements, Ortega will be ariving at the hotel by limosine at approximately 9 p.m. I stand by the window, watching and waiting. My rifle waits on the bed ready to be used once more. Another bullet. Another target. Another contract completed.  
  
I wait a few more minutes until I finally see a limo approaching the hotel. It's time.  
  
I grab the gun from the bed, checking it one last time to make sure it's loaded and ready to fire. It is, as always. I slide the window up and aim at the limo which is stopping outside the hotel. I check the licence plate. It's Ortega's limo alright. I lean against the wall next to the window and control my breathing to steady my aim. It's hardly necessary, the target is barely fifty metres away.  
  
I look down the scope at the now stationary limo. The hotel porter is coming over to open the door. The porter opens the door and steps back.  
  
A man steps out. I zoom the scope in to get a good look at his face...  
  
Not him. Earpiece. Sunglasses. Bulge in jacket. Bodyguard.  
  
The bodyguard scans the area, looking for any sign of a threat. Looks pretty professional. Russian, mabye.  
  
He hands the porter a tip before opening a large, red and white umbrella and holding it over the car door, blocking my view of the taget. I can only see Ortega's legs, if it is Ortega, as he gets out of the limo. My mind races. Security is too tight to go into the hotel after him. It would get too messy.  
  
They are only a few steps away rom the entrance now and I can only think of one other option. As the bodyguard reaches to open the door I aim and fire.  
  
The bullet impacts at the back of the bodyguard's right knee shattering his kneecap, sending him sprawling, along with the umbrella. With the umbrella gone I have a clear view of the other man. It is Ortega. I instantly recognise his shocked face through the crosshairs of my scope. He reaches for his gun as a reflex but even if he knew where I was, he wouldn't have a chance. A split-second later another, almost silent, bullet is fired from my rifle.   
  
The bullet strikes Ortega in the side of the head as he looks around frantically, a halo of crimson and grey matter signals his death even before he crumples to the ground.  
  
I pull the rifle back through the window as the screams and yells inevitabely begin below. As I start to unscrew the silencer I take a quick look out the window. Ortega is lying in a pool of blood while his bodyguard tries to stand up to find me. He won't.  
  
I put the rifle and silencer back in their places in the suitcase. I throw the folder in as well and snap it shut. I grab the suitcase with my gloved hand and reach into my jacket pocket with the other. I pull out my cellphone and speed-dial the first number.   
  
"Agency."  
  
"This is 47. It's done." I say.  
  
"Your funds will be transferred upon confirmation." Click.  
  
So that's it. Not a bad day's work.  
  
_Turn up. Pull the trigger. Disappear._  
  
Is this all there is to me? Is this all that I was created for?  
  
I leave the small room, suitcase in hand, and walk to the stairs. I reach the bottom of the stairs and walk out the door into the cold London rain. A crowd has gathered on the other side of the road to see the spectacle of death. The sirens in the distance make me speed up slightly. I turn a corner and I'm away from the scene of my crime.  
  
I sometimes wonder why I continue to do this? I don't need to. I'm not a slave to the barcode on my head.   
  
I think I'm just bored. Killing people over and over isn't exactly challenging anymore. Now it's just part of the job. I should probably think some more about this but for now I have to catch a train. I walk quickly down the steps of the London Underground station.  
  
Time to disappear again.


End file.
